How To Tame A Mafioso (PLAYBOOK #5)

HERA The first word I learned in English was, run. We were visiting from the old country and I had wondered off around the large estate. I don’t remember the city or town we were in but my mother was being interviewed for a maid job by some suburbanists who didn’t mind that she had a child. It was our first time in America so everything was new to me, especially the English language. I have always been a free spirit, even as a child. I had so many questions about everything and I didn’t wait for explanations or to ask questions because I wanted to figure it out myself. My mama, Lena Kampouris was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had curly light brown hair that she always wore in a braid and a healthy figure that looked amazing in white dresses with frills and flower patterns. They grey of her eyes held kindness but the natural pout of her lips had sternness. She was a true Grecian woman so she loosened the reigns the moment I could crawl. Lena did everything but stifle me when I began to walk and welcomed my bold opinions with humour. Us living in Greece our whole lives allowed that freedom but the U.S was a different ballpark. I didn’t even notice the dog charging at me as I took in the large houses people called ‘homes’ from behind the fence. I heard too late the distant voice down the road that kept saying “run!” RUN. I didn’t know what it meant so I had a large dog knock me down as it began to rip apart my new white dress like it lead to a prize. I was only 7years old. The second word I learned in English was, “help.” The voice that was suddenly far away was next to me screaming and pulling the leash as my dress turned crimson red. Again, I didn’t understand so I relied on what I saw. I was bleeding but I didn’t know where. I was hurting but I didn’t comprehend how much. Everything was heavy and it wasn’t just because of the dog over my body. When the leash broke and the small owner of the voice fell on the ground, I registered one emotion. FEAR. But it wasn’t coming from me. The fear was vibrating through crystal blue eyes that were staring at me while holding a broken leash in their small pale hands. For that one second, we looked at each other before suddenly, a black pistol with a silencer at the end connected to the snout and the dog voluntarily moved off me as of sensing a danger bigger than her. Yes, the dog was a female and as I would come to learn, a vicious English bulldog that belonged to the Russian mob. I didn’t know much about animals but my first encounter with a b***h was a lasting one. My eyes moved from my attacker to my saver. The holder of the gun had curly black hair with white streaks. She was short and her skin was pale like she hadn’t seen sunlight in her life. The blue of her eyes had a hit of green and her smirk resembled a wolf. I would come to learn her name was Polina Petrova Dominaka or as everyone calls her, Yaya. I didn’t know it yet but Yaya Petrova and her family were really powerful people. Believe it or not, having that dog attack me was the best thing that happened to us—me and my mother that is—because it was the day we met her. The Saint Angel Though questionable, getting attacked by that dog wasn’t the worst or most traumatic thing that ever happened to me. Adonis’s disappearance was. My mother died 4years later in her sleep. We were living in village near Santorini by then and my English was still zero to none but thanks to her love of books, I could read, write and understand it very well. Over time, English became my secret weapon. I’d listen in on the tourist’s conversations and laugh to myself at the drama appearing in their lives as I wondered around town. One of the backpackers gave me my first all English book after I helped her catch her bus. The Trojan Horse. Fitting, considering all I had ever known was Grecian culture until my mother’s passing. After that, life for an orphan who only had 1 living family member changed. Two weeks after Lena’s burial, I was on the street with the dogs. Sleeping in abandoned boats by the shore and eating from restaurant bins. I was 11 when I heard that word again. RUN! Guns were everywhere as people in black bulletproof clothes ran on the sides of the road. It all happened so fast but one word kept leaving my lips as strong arms grabbed me. “HELP!” I still didn’t know what it meant but it was the only word that appeared in my mind as I got thrown in trucks, moved into planes, carried into boats and ended up in a soundproof container for who knows how long. I never liked action movies or thrillers and definitely not horror related entertainment. I never understood why until the day I had a black pistol connected to the side of my head. This time there was no silencer. This time it had backup of a sharp knife against my throat in case the bullet didn’t do the job. What I hated watching suddenly became my life and I was only 11 years old. It was then that I realized, no one was coming to help me so I wiped my tears and wrote on paper with the dirt on my fingers: TROJAN HORSE. The only English book I had ever read but never understood saved my life and just like that little Hera Kampouris became a survivor The spoiler is, I never stood a chance after that dog attacked me so don’t expect a happily ever after even. But this is quite a story, if I didn’t live it I wouldn’t have believed it myself.